Under Different Skies
by DelightMeWithYourScreams
Summary: THOR: TDW/IRON MAN 3 FUSION. Erik Selvig may or may not be a madman, but Tony Stark knows all too well that insanity is a symptom of genius—or the leftover of a god's mind-control. When Selvig rants about planets and numbers and an approaching convergence, Tony listens and crafts his own personal bridge between Earth and Asgard—and, rather unexpectedly, between him and Loki.
1. Waiting for the sunlight out there

**This story is weird, just so you know, and there are HUGE spoilers of Thor: TDW****—and possibly IM3, if the mood strikes me. However, I haven't forgotten about TWCCD and I know I shouldn't get entangled with something else while I'm still writing that one... You know what? Blame it on Thor: TDW and enjoy.**

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**A YEAR BEFORE THE CONVERGENCE**

"_Sir, may I remind you that the last time you ate was twenty-eight hours and forty minutes ago? And it was junk food, might I add."_

He is ninety-five percent focused on the numbers flowing on the holoscreens. For a split-second, the remaining five percent takes lunch (dinner? Breakfast? Whatever) into consideration. Food means a break. A break would be no good for science right now. He is doing science. The equation is quite easy to solve.

"C'mon, _mom_, don't be such a pussy. I had a sandwich, like, two hours ago?"

"_Your last meal consisted of a McDonald's Big Mac, sir. You had the sandwich the day before yesterday."_

Tony doesn't even bother coming up with a proper reply; he just snorts.

A universe of codes open up in front of him, galaxies blossom from his fingers typing on the keyboard, stars come to life from the buzzing noises of the computers surrounding him. Other worlds and different skies, the void and the abyss. He takes all of them and shapes them according to his tastes, like a god—wait. Thor pops up in his mind—Thor doing science? No way. Not like a god, then. Better.

"_Sir, Miss Potts…"_

"Let's try it, J," Tony cuts him off, doesn't even listen. Too much room for science and power and experiments, too little for people at the moment. "One, two, three. On."

One, two, three.

A loud hiss, a startled chirp from Dum-E, and everything goes black. Tony blinks in the sudden darkness, shivers in the sudden silence. He doesn't like either of them. They feel too much like the wormhole he fell in, too much like fear and fire and _why's Pepper not answering the damn phone?_, too much like failure.

"Uh, J? You still there, buddy?"

"_Yes, sir, although the device didn't work as expected. It picked up the signal for only two point seven seconds."_

Two point seven, Tony muses to himself. It's not much, but it's not bad either for a start, and he still has a few months to work on it, if he can trust Selvig's calculations. Which he does, despite his common sense strongly advising him against the man's dwindling sanity. Tony has never been buddy-buddy with his common sense, anyway.

"Alright," he says. "J, would you mind turning the lights on?"

"_I'm afraid I can't, sir. The device used all the energy on this floor."_

Standing up to restore the power by hand, he trips over Dum-E and curses through gritted teeth. _Definitely _needs to work on it, if he doesn't want to die in the most ridiculous way ever the next time.

Two guards are removing the shackles, while three more are watching closely, swords unsheathed and spears raised dangerously close to his head, when Loki feels the sting on his wrist. It is brief, too brief for the god to grasp what it might be, but it is definitely _something_.

Something different, something unexpected, something that will hopefully keep him away from the eternity of boredom Odin has doomed him to.

Loki could have handled torture, humiliation, even death, with grace and sharp sarcasm. He is the God of Chaos: making mistakes and bearing their consequences is part of his nature. Boredom, though, is a whole different matter. He is not a creature of inactivity, of idleness. He can be patient, extremely patient, if he knows that the stillness is only temporary. However, he cannot come to terms with rotting in indolence for thousands of years on end.

Unfortunately, as much as he loathes to admit it, the All-Father is all too aware of his nature. Loki wonders how thoughtfully he must have pondered his punishment.

Perhaps he will ask Frigga, someday, out of the sheer pleasure of seeing her cringe.

He has no chance to study his bindings, as the sentries urge him none-too-gently into his cell with their weapons, although he does not need to look to know that he would probably find nothing amiss: if it had been easily detectable—whatever _it_ is—it would have been long since discovered by the dutiful guards of the prison.

The room is large enough for him to be comfortable, but empty. Regardless of his status as a legitimate prince—whether Asgardian or Jötunn, a prince nonetheless—they have not cared about even providing him with a bed.

"Disappointing, eh?" A disgraceful, cackling voice from a cell across from his own. Loki does not even turn—he glimpses long, blood-stained fangs, sharp, yellow claws and filthy fur out of the corner of his eye—and the creature's chuckle escalates to full-blown laughter. "The little prince, treated like a common prisoner! Even puling with your mother did not help, did it now?"

Loki's fingers itch, his _seidhr_ coils and uncoils inside of him.

He wonders how much time it would take to turn the monster's flesh inside out, wonders if the creature would find it still amusing then. Wonders if it would join Loki's joyful sneer while the god painted the walls of his cell with its nauseating blood.

_If only._

Once again, though, he is stuck with waiting.

"You are so very right," he sighs, a distorted, unhinged smirk curving his lips upwards. He does not have to face his interlocutor to feel its discomfort at his easiness, and it is _beautiful_. "Perhaps, though, they would be more prone to listening to my complaining, if there happened to be, let us say, _casualties_? What do you think, my friend?"

The response is a low grumble, but it sounds like an ode to the God of Lies and Mischief. _Just a little bit of fun, really._ After all, he needs a pastime of some sort.

No one else dares to speak to him again. He sits down in a corner opposite to the golden magic barrier, tips his head back against the marble wall, and chuckles quietly to himself. This time, he can be patient. This time, he knows something is bound to happen. Whether good or bad, he does not know yet.

_Isn't it what makes the wait all the more exciting?_


	2. Running towards the end

**TWO MONTHS BEFORE THE CONVERGENCE**

"Hello?"

"Hey, Doc, it's Tony Stark. How're you doing?"

"Tony _who_? I don't want to buy anything!"

"What? No, no, wait—don't hang u—!"

"Hello?"

"Doc, it's Tony. Tony as in Iron Man!"

"Iron Man? Am I really talking to Iron Man?"

"Yes Doc, we've even met once, don't you remember? On top of my tower, with all those alien spaceships flying around and Loki being a dick and the Tesseract, uh, kind of mind-controlling you? And then there was that nice conversation about your theories? After the mind-control thing, I mean, of course."

"Oh my God, _yes_! You and your friends saved my life that day, I'll be forever grate—"

"Yeah, cool, but focus on the conversation. Back then, you told me you were still calculating the right time for the convergence to happen, right? I just wanted to check, any progress on that front?"

"Oh, well, yes! Actually, if I'm right—and I daresay that I am—I think I've figured out the date."

"… Doc, that's _awesome_."

Finally, something happens, and it is _big_, bigger than Loki expected.

He has been waiting for months; sometimes the hope dwindled, sometimes resolution flared up stronger than before. However, never once has it left him. Never once has he lost sight of what lies beyond the waiting.

He waits, and waits, and waits, and then the sting returns and he smirks.

This time it lasts longer, a lingering pain that could not be any more welcome, any more sweet—it reminds him of freedom, of victory, of _oh so close_. It lasts long enough for a surprisingly familiar voice to call out hesitantly: "Hello?"

Loki waits, and waits, and waits, and then his face falls.

"Stark?" he croaks, the syllables almost choking him. "Is that _you_?"

Whatever it is, it does not answer immediately and the god is almost sure it will not, until: "Well, way to tell me you're glad to see me again, Reindeer Games—except you don't exactly _see _me, but still. What a warm greeting. I'm fine, thanks, how're things going in prison? Did you make a lot of friends?"

The god thinks this must be a joke. He _hopes_ this is a joke.

Unfortunately, he is aware of Stark's mastery of science, although he did not imagine the man—nothing but a mortal—would accomplish anything of that magnitude. This is not only human science anymore; this is _magic_, magic of the most powerful sort—the ability to travel through realities.

"Hey? Still there? Cat got your tongue or something? Uh, that sounds almost _wrong_, considering your nicknames."

It is no joke, yet Loki pushes disappointment aside. This may very well be his only chance in years—or ever—and he will not waste it because of a pathetic Midgardian.

"Rather interesting, Stark." He graces the man with a response at last, though wary. "Might I ask in which manner you are talking to me?"

"Well, it's kind of a complicated story." The god savors hesitation in his tone and knows there is much more to it than that—there is cautiousness, there is awareness of the animosity between them, and there is fear, too, which delights Loki; fear that the Liesmith would take advantage of such knowledge, if the man were to reveal too much by mistake. "And I don't want to bore you to death with it. I mean, figuratively speaking, since you're, you know, immortal."

"I happen to have a great deal of time currently at my disposal."

"Uh. Right." Loki cannot help the grin that crosses his features. _I've got you, Stark._ "Alright, let's do this again. It's kind of a complicated story and you're probably smart enough to magic your way back here if you pick on the right piece of info, so, sorry pal, but that's not happening."

His unexpected honesty catches the Liesmith off-guard. He blinks, befuddled, and tries to recall when was the last time it happened to him—he fails. Now, this is interesting. Perhaps this turn of events will prove actually useful, after all—a nice pastime that will keep him from rotting in boredom, at the very least. "You have my thanks for being so straightforward."

"Yeah, well, you have mine for, uh, not pressing me?"

Loki heaves a sigh. "It is not as though I could force my will onto you in any way. Furthermore, I do not wish for you to cease what it is that you are doing. Unfortunately, walls and books do not make good entertainers."

A pause, as the Midgardian processes the implied meaning of that. "Hey, is that an insult?"

The Liesmith's eyebrows shoot up in an innocent expression that would fool the most skeptical—what a shame that the mortal cannot see it. "Not at all."

"Because it sounded like I'm your clown or something."

Loki grins—_thank the Norns_ that the man misses that. "Were I a lesser being—let us say, an earthling—I would be flattered if a god deemed me amusing."

Stark must sense the—mostly—harmless mirth in his voice, because he does not bite back, but counters good-naturedly: "You know, if I were a god, I'd be out of that cell—or wherever they're keeping you—in two point seven seconds at most. Maybe I wouldn't even be in a cell at all. Just saying, buddy: when it comes down to being a deity, you're a bit of a disappointment."

The Liesmith arches an eyebrow. _That_ is a little too good-natured, even for that particular Midgardian; even he, for all the recklessness and selfishness that Loki has certainly not missed, would not go as far as to show that odd sort of openness to one who in his eyes has his hands soaked in the blood of so many of his own kin.

Bristling with curiosity, he does what he does best—he prods and pushes and oversteps his limits. "I apologize from the bottom of my heart for frustrating your fantasies." He discards the topic with a careless wave of his hand, momentarily forgetful of the fact that his interlocutor cannot see him. "Speaking of my imprisonment, however, I meant to ask—how is Phil Coulson?"

He expects a stretch of tense, heavy silence; he expects the mortal to break down and lash out at him; he expects to win and does not care anymore if the man leaves, because his pride comes first—always before everything, his own happiness included.

On the contrary, his inquiry seems to make Stark _brighten up_. "Hey, thanks for the concern, dude, but he's actually okay. I mean, still in the hospital and a bit sore, but he's recovering. Bet that in a month we'll be grabbing Shawarma together at this same time."

Every now and again, being surprised might be a pleasant change; once too many times, it only makes his patience wear thin too fast.

Green fire in his eyes, pearly white teeth bared in a grimace, he snaps: "Enough. I will not have any more of your tomfoolery, mortal."

"Ouch." The Midgardian does not sound impressed in the least, let alone frightened—much to his chagrin, Loki cannot blame him. "Is this what you usually do when you don't know what to say? Wordy mode kicks in? You know—actually, you probably don't—there's this movie from Disney, it's called _Bambi_—Bambi is a deer, now isn't that funny?—and there's this rabbit, Thumper, who goes "if you can't say something nice, don't say nothing at all". Sounds like a wise piece of advice, doesn't it? Well, if you ignore the grammar, anyway."

The Liesmith pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. Perhaps he has overestimated the man in terms of intelligence. He does not understand what he is aiming at with all this nonsense, unless the human has a very peculiar and distorted sense of humor and is driving him crazy for the sheer fun of it.

As tricking him into revealing his purpose is proving highly unsuccessful and deeply irritating, he resorts to bluntness—a weapon that he does not often employ and that many think suits him ill, although by now they should be well aware of the unpredictability of his nature. "Why have you contacted me of all people?"

"Easy," says Stark, a careless shrug in his voice, "I wanted to keep track of both you and the Tesseract. Best way to do it? Smuggle some of my tech into Asgard."

The god perks his head up, interested. "Why not simply ask your _dearest friend_ Thor instead?"

"Because he isn't my friend."

The mortal speaks as though it is the most obvious thing in the world, yet Loki cannot help but part his lips and widen his eyes in genuine disbelief for a fleeting second, before he once again regains his self-control. He clears his throat, thankful that the Midgardian was not present to witness the fall of his façade—however brief—and tries to adjust to that unfamiliar feeling, one that he does not have a habit of experiencing, but rather the other way around: shock.

_Most unexpected._ It is like chaos and insecurity, with the slightest hint of panic. _I like it._

Stark's laughter rings inside the cell, rich and hearty and baldly mocking. "You didn't see that coming? Seriously? Think about it. We were forced to team up. We don't even like each other, let alone _trust_. Me? I like to be careful. Learned that the hard way. Some alien god comes up to me and tells me he's going to take the most powerful shit I've ever seen _and_ a homicidal freak—which would be you, in case you were wondering—to his planet and maybe, if he has time, he'll send a thank you card? Well, I'd say thanks, but no thanks, I won't fall for that. But then, who knows? Maybe Thor's the most sincere guy in the world—pardon, _worlds_—and you and the blue cubish thingy are safe, but there's no harm in a little bit of prevention."

The Liesmith has to give it to him, this man is proving much more intelligent than he first thought. It is the second time that he realizes he has underestimated him—the first one being their previous encounter on top of the building of the mortal's own creation—and he swears to himself that there will be no third—there will be no more defeats by the hand of Anthony Stark.

"I can see your point," he remarks in a pleasant tone, as if they are old friends meeting for some coffee. As the god knows well, the line between friends and enemies, between love and hate, is so thin that it can be overstepped ever so easily. "You want control. Wise of you indeed, in my opinion. Why, though, inform me of your plan?"

"You can't do much about it, right?" Although he admitted it himself earlier, hearing it from someone else stings nonetheless. Yet the god endures, because this is what Loki does. Endure, wait, strike—win. "Plus, you're one of the few that can understand when I brag about it."

Loki laughs—perhaps sincerely, for once. "Flatterer."

"I just don't like to beat around the bush, especially when it's about stuff we both know about."

"Why would you lie about the fact that I am probably the _only one_ able to understand, then?"

"Okay, you've got me there." The Liesmith can hear the grin dancing on his interlocutor's lips and he returns it unconsciously. "But, well, I can't say I wasn't kind of expecting it. You know, God of Lies thing and all. So, care to talk for a little bit? I mean, I'm sure you're already bored out of your mind in your—speaking of which, where are you exactly? Last I heard from Thor, you were going to be tried by some Asgardian court, right?"

The god's smile falls apart at that, but surprisingly enough, he does not lash out. His voice is oddly even, quiet and emotionless. He listens to himself respond as though it was someone else on his behalf. "I know not what Thor told you, though there was no trial. There was never supposed to be one. A defendant would have the right to stand up for himself. Instead, I was admitted to the All-Father's presence and received my sentence right away. A lifetime to rot in the dungeons of the palace, with no room to speak for myself."

"Man, honestly, did you expect to be released with a smack on the head and a _just be more careful next time _from Daddy?" The mortal's snark, which he would counter easily under any other circumstance, gets under his skin instead, eliciting a furious hiss from him. '_Tis not the right moment to mess with me, scum._

The Midgardian is utterly unfazed and once again his own helplessness eats at Loki's insides like an infection, a disease. Like poison dripping from a snake's fangs, like blood staining an eagle's sharp beak. Like the call of three roosters in the dead of the night. Like the beginning of his fate and the end of everything else. _No, no, no. There is no such thing as destiny. I make my own path. I am _not _helpless._

"Sorry to be the one to make you face reality, but you had it coming on you. Every bit of it. You—you _killed_ people, fuck this shit, and you hope that I'd _sympathize_ with you? That's—"

The Liesmith has had enough of it—of the truth, a bitter voice clarifies in the back of his head. "I do not need your sympathy nor you pity, you little—"

"Fine," the man interrupts him as well, "'cause you don't have it."

The god falls silent. Tender worry, he gets from Frigga—far too much, more than he deserves. Complete disregard from Odin and hurt indignation from Thor. That, though—Stark acting as he normally does, as aggravating as it may be at times—that familiarity, as though he is Loki—not Loki the prisoner, not Loki the fallen king, not Loki the failed son; only Loki—he gets from no one else but this one human.

And he wants it.

_No, I do not._

"Fine," he mutters, but receives no answer, except for a fleeting, itchy sensation on the inside of his wrist that soon dies out.

He raises his arm above his head, tips his chin up to examine it and frowns.

He wants it.

_No._

He _craves_ it, though he denies it, denies the disappointment filling him when the Midgardian's device stops working, denies how much their brief exchange soothed the monotony of his imprisonment—always so deceptive of everyone, himself included.

A tired sigh—tired of denying, tired of deceiving—battles its freedom out of his throat, but the god swallows it back, lowers his arm, and tightens both of them around his knees.

The lights go out again, but this time Tony is excited.

It worked. _It worked._

For—"_fifteen minutes and sixteen seconds, sir"_—but it really worked. He just actually talked to a guy in fucking Asgard, in _another freaking dimension_, thanks to his tech. _Oh God, I'm a genius._

He isn't sure where Loki's voice came from—maybe a small-sized version of an Einstein-Rosen bridge, too insignificant to transfer physical matter, but wide enough to let sound through?—but he has time to figure it out and _goddamn it_, it worked.

He wants—fuck that, he _must_ go back to work as much as he needs air to live. It's probably the craziest thought he's ever had in his life, but he can't wait to talk to the god again, to test his limits and break them again, and again, and again, until there are no more limits and he's finally _there_, where he's been running to all his life, ever since the first time Howard dismissed him in favor of his latest project.

He has no clue where _there_ is, he just knows that this is a step closer to it, like Iron Man, like the arc reactor, even like Extremis.

"J?" he calls, beaming like a child on Christmas Day.

"_Yes, sir?"_ There's a split-second of hesitation there, but it must be an impression, because JARVIS isn't programmed to sound worried, like Pepper does when he's going into science mode—she always knows.

"Back to work, buddy."

"… _Yes, sir."_ What was that now, a sigh?

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**Don't expect much action from this story, it's more about introspection, angst and other sentimental shit. This is why the chapters will be short, so that I can delve deeply into single episodes instead of packing up pages and pages of killing and battling.  
*Mythological tip: according to the _Edda_, Ragnarok would be preceded by the crow of three roosters.  
Hope you enjoyed it!**


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